


The Fox and the Grapes

by INMH



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris, 1832: Grantaire makes a difficult decision after an encounter with Enjolras. Storybrooke, 2011: He’s still paying for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fox and the Grapes

**Author's Note:**

> This will hopefully become a larger series, and so I apologize for just kind of throwing you into the OUAT universe if you're unfamiliar with it. This one takes place during Season One, between "The Price of Gold" and "That Still, Small Voice".

“Why were you talking to Mr. Gold?”  
  
Michael’s eyes burned into Grant’s like the deadly glare of Medusa, ready to turn him to stone. Or, Grant considered grimly, if one wanted to implicate a more recent publication, the basilisk from Harry Potter. Grant shoved the cans of spray-paint back into his bag and broke eye-contact with the blond.  
  
“He asked the time, that’s all.” Grant assured, but when he chanced a look, Michael didn’t seem convinced.  
  
“You’re not wearing a watch, the clock tower isn’t visible from here, and the conversation you two had seemed to take longer than a simple ‘What’s the time?’ and ‘I don’t know.’”  
  
Grant slung his bag over his shoulder and started to trudge on. He was already on the sheriff’s shit-list for getting caught at tagging in the alley behind the diner and had no desire for a repeat performance of the lecture he had received. “Remind me again why it’s any business of yours that I had words with someone?”  
  
That was the wrong thing to say. Wrong, wrong, wrong.  
  
Michael was a crusader, a young man determined to expose the corruption within Storybrooke; Mr. Gold was well-known for being the single most corrupt person in town, dealing in all sorts of illegal, subversive behaviors that Michael would dearly, _dearly_ love to catch him at and expose him for. And so while it really wasn’t his business that Grant had spoken with the man, he would take the defensiveness as a cue that Grant had something to hide. And that would not go over well.  
  
“You know damn well why it’s my business.”  
  
“No, actually, I don’t.”  
  
Michael picked up his stride and circled around so that he was blocking Grant’s path. “Mr. Gold,” He said, and even for all of his courage Michael didn’t dare to speak at room-level, “is the most corrupt person in Storybrooke. He has his hand in every dirty job in town, and has been blackmailing innocent people to do his skullduggery-”  
  
Grant burst into wild snickering. “Oh my God, are you serious? Did someone dare you to work the word ‘skullduggery’ into average conversation today?” He shook his head and tried to weave around Michael, but the taller man caught him by the arm.  
  
“Don’t even try to-” Michael stopped mid-sentence. When he had grabbed Grant, his bag had been jostled; and the noises that resulted sounded like more than just a few cans of spray-paint. His expression, if possible, grew even darker, and Grant heaved a long-suffering sigh. Michael roughly grabbed the bag and ripped it open- he didn’t even have to look very hard before finding and pulling out the bottle of alcohol inside. When he looked back up at Grantaire, his gaze was stormy.  
  
Grantaire groaned, though it never quite left his throat. “Just say it.”  
  
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
  
“Here we go.”  
  
“ _Again?_ ”  
  
“Of course _again,_ I’m a fucking alcoholic, remember?” Grant snapped, yanking both the bottle and his bag from Michael’s grasp. “Christ, I don’t even know why you’re surprised.”  
  
Michael’s eyes fell shut. He crossed his arms, took a deep breath, and then opened them again. “I’m not surprised, unfortunately. Just disappointed. I thought you were doing better.”  
  
Grant’s smile was painfully sardonic. “Well, I’m not. Though I’m touched you care- I thought you’d be content to see me puking in a sewer-grate as long as I wasn’t screwing with your rebellious agenda.”  
  
He turned away so that he wouldn’t have to see Michael’s reaction, and rounded the corner of the building to get out of earshot before he could get a response. Michael, of course, was nothing if not determined. “How could you say something like that of me? Am I such a terrible friend?”  
  
Grant almost came to a screeching halt, because his brain honestly _hurt_ from the way it was pulled into two different directions. On one hand, no: Michael was an excellent friend to the ABC club. Anyone could come to him for anything, for whatever reason, and Michael would always help them without question.  
  
On another hand, that courtesy was not extended to Grant.  
  
For the life of him, Grant didn’t know what he’d done. Okay, so he drank a lot, so he was argumentative: Sheriff Graham hated Wyatt _way_ more than he hated Grant, because Wyatt was in the habit of getting into fights at the drop of a hat. John had a big (and eloquent) mouth when he was drunk, and could have easily spilled their secrets at any given time. Nicholas had almost killed them all with disinfectant from his obsessive, germaphobic cleaning sprees on more than one occasion.  
  
And yet, in spite of all of this, it was _Grant_ that Michael held the most disdain for.  
  
All right, so maybe Grant was pessimistic, and on occasion it bled into their little club-house meetings. But in the interest of not alienating all of his friends, Grant restrained himself on most occasions and restricted his pessimism to a quiet remark or two under his breath, and never anything too severe.  
  
He might have asked what he had done to earn a stronger version of Michael’s disdain, but to be honest? A significant part of him was afraid to find out what it was. Maybe he just didn’t want to know.  
  
“Of course not- but then, as you’ve made clear over the course of time, we are not friends. Acquaintances? Yes! Allies, even? Certainly!” Grant gave him a broad but thin smile, shaking his head and pushing the flap back over the top of his bag so that the alcohol (and the paint) wasn’t visible. “But I’m not under the impression that you’re very fond of me, Michael, and I think that’s a requirement of friendship. Or at the very least, a lack of burning hatred.”  
  
Michael shut his eyes, and this time he looked less frustrated and more regretful. But only a little. “I don’t-”  
  
“Later.” Grant cut him off, and departed swiftly for his home so that Michael was unable to say what he wanted to.  
  
And for some reason, that gave Grant some grim satisfaction.


End file.
